


Hourglass

by dwarvenkin



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Because when is there not?, But Not Much, F/M, Fluff, Guilt, In-game Dialogue, M/M, Necromancy, Obsession, One-Shots, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Really Angry Elf, Regret, Romance, Tranquil, different POVs, i'm terrible at tagging things omg, one in the middle of the game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-29 22:21:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8507725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwarvenkin/pseuds/dwarvenkin
Summary: A collection of one-shots about three of my inquisitors--Salonna Lavellan and her final confrontation with Solas in Trespasser, Rania Trevelyan and her reaction to Maddox the Tranquil mage in Samson's keep, and, finally, Zachary Trevelyan and his obsession with necromancy that eventually strains his relationship with Dorian.





	1. Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thanks for taking the time to read my fics! I'm not sure if there are any trigger warnings for this chapter, but please let me know if you would like me to add anything. :)

There she was and there he was and passed him was an eluvian standing slim, tall, and shining. Surrounding them were broken stones and whispers of waterfalls, moss and grass and wind, and beyond that, down below in a shallow valley, was a massive fortress full of vines, columns, statues, buttresses, and trees pushing through white marble. Mountains pressed against them all, piercing the pink and orange sky and the ribbons of clouds passing overhead, but Salonna pushed the colors away, the images of a world she had never known. She ignored the dirt between her toes and the birds chirping in the distance because anger was a tunnel vision and all she saw was Solas.

Throughout her journey here, she had done nothing else but think of what she might say or do to him once they had finally met face to face. Would she let her rage get the better of her? Fill her magic into flames and ice until a shard pierced his heart like he had shattered hers? Would she scream and stomp with hot thick tears sending trails down her red cheeks? Or would she stand in front of him and let him look at what had become of her, what state he had left her in?

Salonna blinked one eye, the other, an empty socket, hidden under a patch of black leather.

_Look Solas. Look what Corypheus took from me._

But before she could say anything, the mark, sick and pulsing, flared against the skin of her hand. It spread wider, pressing against bone and muscle. Fire licked at her nerves all the way up her shoulder as she cried out and buckled under the violent pain. For a heartbeat, she saw nothing but white until, as suddenly as it had come, the pain eased away back down her shoulder, her elbow, and, finally, the palm of her hand.

“That should give us more time,” said Solas.

He looked down at her.

She hated it, kneeling before him. The inquisitor took the knee for no one. She recruited and she judged and she ruled just as her advisors, as Cassandra and Dorian and Vivienne had taught her. Salonna was no longer the frightened, stuttering child she once was, the timid, spineless little girl who had let the Inquisition lead her and not the other way around. But now, she _was_ the Inquisition. Salonna put a foot beneath her and stood.

“I suspect you have questions,” he said, and he had the nerve to look sympathetic.

 _Why_ , she almost asked, but she was pushed into memories she would rather forget:

Her, confused and shaken by Solas’ sudden anger.

“I begged you not to drink from the Well! Why could you not have listened?”

“W-W-Why are you an-angry, Solas?” she had asked in that soft voice she once had.

“You gave yourself into the service of an ancient elven god!” His nostrils had flared, the way they always had when emotion tried to push through composure.

“W-would you have liked Morr–igan to drink from it ins-s-stead?”

His shoulders had slumped a fraction. “It would not have been much better that way. She cannot be trusted.”

“Th–en w-why, Solas?” she had asked again.

_Why, why, why._

His expression had softened, lines disappearing between his brows and around his mouth. People yelling had made her nervous, and being nervous had made her stuttering worse. “Because then,” he had begun, taking her thin shoulders in his hands, “she would have been at Mythal’s every whim, and you would have been free.”

Her, standing in the middle of jagged walls of stone and stag statues a mile high, rushing water to her back and Solas in front of her. It had been the middle of the night then, fireflies dancing beneath the stars, the smell of spindleweed and dirt and the beginning of morning dew surrounding them, a place that felt like it had been lost in time.

Her skin had tingled when he had kissed her. He had pulled her close and she had hummed into his lips until he had tilted his head away. Eyes still closed, lips still buzzing – she had wanted more.

“And I am sorry,” he had said. “I distracted you from your duty. It will never happen again.”

Her mind had, had trouble catching up. She had blinked once, twice, until she had fully understood his meaning.

Her voice had broke, heart throbbing in her throat. “Why?”

Other memories sailed before her eyes – looking up at a sketch of a fresco smudged into the wall and asking why he had chosen yellow, offering him a sip of her tea and asking why he hated the stuff, laying her head in his lap with his fingers in her hair and breath at her ear and asking why she couldn’t stay in the Fade for the rest of her life.

_Why, why, why._

So instead, she said, “You’re Fen’Harel. You’re the Dread Wolf.”

Solas nodded his head. “Well done.” He clasped his hands behind his back and stepped forward. Salonna took a step back. A frown twitching at the ends of his lips, Solas noticed and stayed where he was. “The Dread Wolf inspired hope in my friends and fear in my enemies… Not unlike Inquisitor I suppose.”

“I am _nothing_ like you,” Salonna spat, throat tight and eye blazing. “Your pride has blinded you, Solas.”

His eyes narrowed, but somewhere deep she could see the pity there. “I am well aware… Well, now you know. What is the old Dalish curse? ‘May the Dread Wolf take you’?”

“Ma harel lasa!” she shouted, losing the little control she had. Anger bubbled in the pit of her stomach. She could feel her body trembling.

“Only by omission,” he tried to explain, tired.

This time, she stepped forward, close enough to smell the fur over his shoulder and the iron encasing him. “Ma lasa banal’ghilana! You used me!”

“I only used the Inquisition.”

“I _AM_ THE INQUISITION.”

He flinched, but he tried to pretend like he hadn’t. Salonna had never raised her voice before. Not like this. “What would you have had me say? That I was the great adversary in your people’s mythology?”

“I would have had you _trust_ me!” she practically snarled.

Now she tingled all over like ice melting on her skin. She saw the bend in Solas’s shoulders, how he leaned a fraction towards her, neck twisting around a swallow, and eyes darting around her face. He wanted to kiss her. It was all right there in his posture and expression, wanting to take something he could never have again. But Salonna would rather eat a corpse’s heart than let Solas touch her lips. She met his eyes.

_Try it. See what happens._

“I sought to set me people free from slavery to would-be gods,” he said, walking away from her. “I broke the chains of all who wished to join me. The false gods called me Fen’Harel, and when they finally went too far, I formed the Veil and banished them forever. Thus I freed the elven people and, in so doing, destroyed their world.”

Salonna followed behind him, keeping several paces between them. Her eyes followed every movement, every step, and she knew Solas could feel her glare on him. He was too clever to turn his back on her without good reason. Not now when her fingertips twitched for ice from the Fade.

He stopped at the edge of a cliff where the world fell away into the shallow valley. The marble castle before them was all pointed arches and sharp towers. Some walls had crumbled throughout the ages. Windows had been shattered and stone steps led nowhere. It was a ruin that demanded attention, even surrounded by mountains. Salonna wondered if it had once been his.

“How did the Veil destroy the world?” she asked.

Solas turned to her. “You saw the remains of Vir Dirthara. The Library was intrinsically tied to the Fade, and the Veil destroyed it.”

“You mean _you_ destroyed it.”

For a heartbeat, something clouded his expression. “Yes.”

Again, Salonna stepped up to him. She was so close she could see the lines around his eyes and the dimple in his chin. “You destroyed Vir Dirthara. You destroyed any hope for the Dalish to learn our heritage, where we _came_ from. And yet you looked down on us! You scolded us, insulted us! And everything we got wrong was because of _YOU_!”

“Your legends are half-right. We were immortal. The vallaslin were meant to honor the gods. For everything that was lost to the elves, the Dalish have preserved far more than I could have imagined.”

Salonna spun around, her white blonde hair whipping Solas’s cheek. The anger, again, boiled. Her vision swam with a pounding between her brows. She had to keep control. Her power was no match for the Dread Wolf, she knew, as she looked around at the garden of Qunari statues. The inquisitor took a deep breath. And then another… and then another.

Finally, she turned to him and said, “So what about the future?”

Solas looked towards the eluvian, its surface swimming and glistening in the pink and orange dusk. “I lay in dark and dreaming sleep while countless wars and ages passed. I woke st–”

“Save me the poetics, Solas,” she interrupted with a sharp sweep of her hand. “Tell me your intentions.”

He faced her then, chin high and shoulders square. He was regal and perfect and dangerous, and at that moment, Salonna knew he must be destroyed. He looked down on her with narrow eyes and a hard frown. Something flipped in her stomach – something frigid and bitter.

_Fear. I’m afraid of him. Who wouldn’t be?_

“I will save the elven people, even if it means this world must die.”

For some reason, Salonna was not surprised to hear him say this. “I will stop you.”

Solas paused. “I know you will try.”

Her gut turned a sharp cold like a stab from a shard of ice. “You underestimate me, Solas. You will not have this world. Not while I am alive. Not whi-”

The anchor flared again. She felt the Fade pull for it, raise her arm above her head and tug her up as her boots dragged against pebbles and moss. Suddenly, she was on the ground. When had she fallen? The pain pushed her veins against her skin, searing her nerves, rattling her bones. She cried out, a wet noise that filled the space around them and echoed down the valley. Frightened birds took flight, the mark grew and the Fade jerked, her skin tingled. The Veil was thin and it wanted to devour her.

“The mark will eventually kill you,” said Solas. He was too calm, too polite. He knelt down beside her. “Drawing you here gave me the chance to save you… at least for now.”

Wrapping her hand around her swollen wrist, she could feel her pulse pounding against the pain. She grit her teeth, but she had to let him know. He had to know. “If… I live,” she grunted. “I’m going… to stop… you.”

The Dread Wolf stood up, swift and proud, then took her left hand and said, “I know.”

With a pull of his hand, he manipulated the Fade, yanked it from the mark or… The pain subsided, reduce to a dull throb at the center of her palm. Air rushed into lungs as she gasped. Her fingers tips felt numb and green energy still swirled around her arm like wisps of lightening, but Solas had taken her pain away. After everything, he had still shown her the kindness she remembered in Haven, in Skyhold, in Halamshiral and the Dales.

His kindness had shown in the most unexpected ways. The way he had waited patiently for her to finish her broken stuttering sentences. How he had held her hand in caves when she felt suffocated. Giving her nods of encouragement when she had sat on her throne. Holding her tight when she had slept and whispering elven endearments in her ear. He had ushered her into his world with an outstretched hand and a tiny smile and she had been surrounded by everything _him_ – his spirits and his Fade and his frescos, his brushes and pelts, the tiny ideas scrawled in elvish at the side of his sketches. He had filled her life with him and she had let him, and it had never occurred to her, until just now, that even though she despised him, she was still letting the Dread Wolf control her world.

“I owe you nothing for this,” she hiss.

“And I ask for nothing,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back and walking towards the Eluvian. “Live well, while the time remains.”

Solas disappeared into the rippling mirror and Salonna was left alone with a boiling rage, a scream in her mouth, and one less arm.


	2. Mistakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: Blood and suicide

The first thing Rania did after each fight was make sure her friends were still standing. Even when in some cases the term “friend” was used loosely. With a gloved hand, she swiped at her brow and counted heads. There was Cassandra, rotating her shoulder, testing the muscle a red templar guard had rammed a shield into.

_I’ll have to make a poultice for that_ , Rania thought.

Varric dusted clouds of dirt off his shoulders and kept Bianca tight in his hands. His eyes looked anywhere that wasn’t covered in red lyrium -- that was, the floor or ceiling. The dwarf hadn’t been hurt as far as Rania knew, thanks to a shield she threw up right before a red templar horror could shred him to pieces. She’ll have to give him a quick physical once they made it back to camp.

_Oh, he’ll love that._

Solas was relatively unharmed. The elf was good at staying near the perimeter of a battle and attacking from afar. His magic obeyed him like water does a current, and he manipulated the Fade in a way Rania had never seen before. She rarely had to worry about him, which was one of many reasons she took him along on so many missions.

_He’s fine... but I should check him anyway. The others might complain._

Finally, Cullen sheathed his long sword and flexed his shield hand. Blood pebbled in a gash across his red cheek from a second red templar guard right before Varric stuck the bastard from behind with an arrow. The commander looked around the Keep, openly disgusted with crumpled stone walls stained with what could only be blood, the collapsed ceiling above where stars shimmered against black, fires burning below them, and, of course, the mountains of red lyrium growing out of the corners like a disease. They glowed redly like a fever and if Rania held her breath, she could hear the faint singing Varric had warned her about. 

Curling her fingers around her staff, Trevelyan pushed the singing from her mind and swallowed around a stubborn lump in her throat. She focused on the cut across Cullen’s cheek, mentally preparing a poultice for that as well.

“Come on. Let’s see what we can find,” said Cullen. He gripped his shield tight in his hand, stomped past them all, and shoved open a pair of large metal doors, each designed with a fire-breathing dragon.

As soon as the doors swung open, all Rania could see was red. The floor, the ceiling, the walls were all washed with a burning glow that pulsed like a heart beat. Lightening bolts of white veins shot across the surface of crimson rock, throbbing to the rhythm of their footsteps. Each footfall made her skin crawl as she and Cullen delved deeper into the chamber. With one look around, she knew this must be where Samson kept himself when his master had no need of him. Red lyrium eight feet tall and just as thick covered nearly every inch of this place. There was nothing but red, nothing but singing, nothing but ringing and drumming... The lyrium was making her sick. She could feel it in the pit of her stomach and behind her eyes and how much she wanted to keel over and vomit.

“I’ll just be over here,” Varric’s cautious voice cut through. “To keep watch.”

From somewhere behind Trevelyan, Cassandra made a disgusted grunt. But Rania could not blame the dwarf. She didn’t want to be here either.

“What are we--” she started, but words caught in her throat when she saw the tranquil slumped against a towering onyx statue of a Tevinter dragon.

Rania picked up her pace, and Cullen followed.

The mage looked no older than she was. His face was gaunt and tired with under eyes purple like bruises. When he folded his hands across his stomach, they were thin and boney, and Rania noticed how his robes hung off of him as though they were two sizes too big. Trevelyan knelt down beside him, trying to ignore the blazing sun tattooed to his forehead and the way his lifeless eyes gazed at her, unsurprising.

“Hello, Inquisitor,” he greeted politely.

The sound of metal and leather echoed across the chamber walls as Cullen knelt in front of the tranquil mage, his face a mixture of anger and grief. Gently, the commander leaned his shield against a pile of broken stone. He looked at Rania, but she was too fixed on the dying man before them.

“You know me?” she asked, her voice strained under her own rage. Tranquil were walking reminders to all mages of what they could become if their voices rose too high. All the joy, all the anger and frustration and love blocked from their hearts and minds. They were also a reminder of what she had once abandoned. Rania hated looking at them.

“It’s Maddox. Samon’s tranquil,” said Cullen.

Rania frowned. “He’s no one’s tranquil.” Before the commander could stumble over an apology, Rania continued, reaching into one of her pouches clipped to her belt. “There’s something wrong. I should have something in my pack for --”

“That would be a waste, Inquisitor Trevelyan,” said Maddox. “I drank my entire supply of blightcap essence. It won’t be long now.”

The calmness on his face and the peacefulness echoing in his voice sent shivers down her spine. Rania had handled blightcap before. It was a variety of the deep mushroom, found in moist caves and the Deep Roads and, thus, had almost always carried the blight. When consumed, it left the person doubled over in pain as the poison bit through their stomach and, eventually, intestines. Rania watched as beads of sweat shined against Maddox’s forehead and upper lip; his eyes focused in and out and she could already see the life drain from his face. There was no cure, not one she knew of, and even if there was, Maddox was too far gone to save. The inquisitor knelt there, helpless.

“We only wanted to ask you questions, Maddox,” Rania said gently, placing a hand on his knee.

“Yes, that is what I could not allow,” he said, monotone. “I destroyed the camp with fire. We all agreed it was best. Our deaths ensured Samson had time to escape.”

Cullen leaned forward, disgusted. “You threw your lives away? For _Samson_? Why?”

“Samson saved me even before he needed me. He gave me purpose again. I...” The mage’s head nodded, his eyes crossing, unfocused, and all the while he had a frightening amount of peace. “I wanted to help...”

The last breath left Maddox’s lips before any of them could get in another word. His body went limp, his eyes finally closed, and they were all left in a deafening silence. Cullen shook his head in regret. Rania took her hand off the tranquil’s knee. From somewhere behind them, the fire cracked and what sounded like wood crumbled into ash.

_This isn’t fair_ , she thought. _This isn’t right._

But what was right and fair anymore, when tranquil died for mad templars and ancient Tevinter magisters rose from the dead and claimed to be gods? The world had turned upside down, caved in. It was a wonder anyone could look up at the green hole in the sky and breath and work and sleep. Madness drove the hearts of innocents and empires and kingdoms, and it was the inquisitor’s job, Rania’s job, to stamp it out and restore peace. But looking down at Maddox’s body, knowing he had ended his own life for a man who would see the world burn... She had to think--

_Is it too late to save our home?_

Cullen struggled under the weight of his armor as he stood. With a concerned look, he reached out a hand and Rania took it. She held on tight, and Cullen squeezed, pulling her up to her feet. She needed to feel the pressure to know that she was still standing here even when her anger felt like a scream in her throat. She didn’t care if the others looked down at their fingers linked together; she didn’t care if she and Cullen had promised to keep their private moments behind closed doors. Rania needed this.

“We should check the camp,” he said. His voice was thick with frustration and grief. “Maddox may have missed something... Dismal place to die,” he sighed after a pause. “It can’t have been much of a place to live, either, under Samson’s command.”

Cassandra, sword and shield still in her hands, split from Solas to pace the length of the chamber. The elf walked the opposite direction, both searching for anything that might have to do with Samson and his red lyrium armor.

“What else do you remember about Samson?” Rania asked as Cullen picked up his shield and slung it around his shoulders. He had to break away from her, but as soon as it was snug on his back, he found her hand again. “The man he used to be?”

“Does it matter? ‘He used to be kind’ only carries so far. Yet Maddox died to help him escape... Samson does command loyalty.”

Rania took a deep breath. Even without looking at the tranquil, she knew Cullen was right. Samson was vile and repulsive, but even a snake can be charming if he says the right words.

“Is there anything in the camp that could help? Or point us to Samson?” she asked.

Cullen took a slow glance around the room. The red glow reflected in his eyes and washed the color from his gold hair. It highlighted the scar on his upper lip and the wrinkles on his forehead. He looked much older than a year ago, and she wondered if it was from the lack of lyrium or his position or his past or maybe all three. She squeezed his hand.

“It’s hard to tell. All I see is smoke and ash,” he said. “If this is Samson’s idea of remaking the world, I prefer yours.”

Rania couldn’t help the tiny smile that twitched on her lips. Her idea of remaking the world was freedom for mages, the disbandment of templars, and the Circle ruled by the very people who were once its prisoners. Her ideas often caused a fight between Cullen and herself, but hearing him say he might prefer her version of the future caused a tiny swell in her heart. Perhaps he was not completely hopeless.

A slight movement caught the corner of her eyes. Turning, she watched as Maddox’s body toppled over. The sound of his skull hitting the solid marble floor resonated a sickly crunch across the chamber. Every head spun towards the tranquil; Trevelyan dropped Cullen’s hand, rushed to Maddox’s side, fell hard on her knees, and cradled the mage’s head in her lap. Blood seeped out of one ear, staining her gloved hands.

“We can’t leave Maddox here,” she whispered as though anything louder might disturb him. “He should be properly laid to rest.”

“I’ll have someone take care of it,” Cullen said from behind her. “If even Samson did his best for Maddox, we can do no less.”

“No,” she said pointedly. “No, we’ll take him back to camp ourselves. He deserves that much. I can’t leave him here.”

She remembered the start of the mage rebellion. Several of her fellow libertarians had fled the Circle the minute a resolutionist mage cut the throat of their Senior Enchanter. Lydia’s blood hadn’t even gone cold before Rania ran for freedom. As far as she knew, her fraternity had abandoned those left in the Circle, and that had included the tranquil, left at the end of the templars’ swords. And Rania had been one of them. The thought of freedom had blinded her, and she had been selfish to think others would protect them. But not her. Not when freedom looked like open sky and lavender meadows, smelled like summer rain and pine needles and crisp mountain air, and felt like a release, liberating and perfect and wonderful. She had touched prickly grass, felt rough bark across her palm, and squeezed hot sand between her toes. 

Looking back on those moments now, she wondered if they had been worth it.

_I’ll make it up to them,_ she thought.

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra cut in. “It seems the fire could not destroy these entirely.”

Rania shrugged off her clock, the fennec fur of the hood tickling her cheeks, and balled up the fabric to gingerly place Maddox’s head upon it. With a hard grip on her staff, she stood and faced Cassandra just as the Seeker stepped forward with a handful of odd looking tools.

“Those are lyrium-forging implements, if I’m to be correct,” Solas spoke up from beside her. “From what I could tell, they are of remarkable design. In fact, they would be worth a great deal of gold.”

Cullen picked one up between thumb and forefinger. It was spiraled metal -- one tip was a tiny ball, the other ended in a sharp point. “Tranquil often designed their own tools. Dagna should be able to make sense of them. If Maddox used these to make Samson’s armor, she could use them to unmake it... We have him.”

The victory seemed far away and dull in the back of her mind. It wasn’t that she was unhappy with what they had found -- far from it. It was the way they had gained the knowledge and tools to finally put an end to Samson. She realized templars would die for this man, maybe even a handful of loyalist mages or brainwashed innocents. He had undoubtedly gained a loyal following. But never had she expected a tranquil to put themselves in the crosshairs.

_Is it so surprising, when their own brothers and sisters abandoned them?_

Rania looked down at where Maddox’s blood dripped down his ear onto the fur of her cloak. “Help me get him back to camp.”


	3. Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: PDA and swearing
> 
> Zachary Trevelyan does not follow the canon storyline of the Trevelyan mage in the game. I put a little spice to it.  
> Like a meatball.  
> And not because I'm obsessed with necromancers..........

The room was quiet except for the occasional swish of a page being turned. Knits of tallow candles stood in a semi-circle around the inquisitor; their flames flickered an orange glow across the towers of books four feet tall, the jars of green liquid and the various bones suspended in it, the skulls who stared blankly at walls full of dust and spiderwebs, and the piles of scrolls scattered about the floor. Assorted vials — some tall, short, fat, slim, others crooked or cracked — were so caked with dust it was a wonder Zachary knew which ones were filled and which ones were not. From above, moss hung from rafters suspended seven feet high, and, below, the floor of patchwork stones were brightened by the large swell of the Tevinter moon.

Out of the pane glass windows, the view of Minrathous was breathtaking. Down below were all pointed towers, spiked buildings, golden arches, and black shining statues of warriors, mages, and, most of all, dragons. Magic kept chunks of ancient, crumbling structures suspended in mid-air, a shock to anyone who entered the city for the first time. Zachary had been no exception. What stood out the most, however, was the one and only bridge that connected the entire city to the rest of Tevinter. It spread so far out into the distance, the end was swallowed up by the horizon. And from the very top of the Magisterium’s library, the bridge was nothing but a thin line stretching across a sliver of the Nocen Sea.

Zachary flexed his hand and turned another page. The paper was thin as a whisper and just as delicate. These tomes and books and scrolls were hundreds of years old; he read passages written during Rivain’s war for independence, letters before the Fourth Blight, and scrolls after Andraste marched on Tevinter. It was thrilling to have such information at his fingertips. Weeks after arriving to Minrathous, he had even taken a bedroll up the spiraling staircases just so he wouldn’t have to leave this room of ancient knowledge.

But it all had a purpose, he kept telling himself. Sleepless nights overlapped, his stomach caved in with hunger, cheeks turned gaunt, and eyes bruised over, but it all _meant_ something. Zachary Trevelyan would find a way to bring back the dead. Body and soul.

Even if it meant opening up the Fade and stepping through.

He tucked a greasy bit of black hair behind his ear and silently turned another page.

A door burst open, sending Trevelyan’s heart racing and pounding so hard he could hear the blood in his ears. But he didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“This is the last time I’m bringing you dinner,” Dorian announced, not for the first time, and, Zachary knew, not for the last. Every day, the Tevinter always made such a show of it — telling the inquisitor to starve with arms crossed and nose practically pointed in the air — but every day he would come with a plate of cheese, olives, and flat bread. Sometimes there would be fish and lemon or honey-roasted figs and herb crusted ham. Today, Dorian set down a plate of flat bread with olive oil and a stem of fresh grapes.

“Thank you,” the inquisitor whispered without looking up from his book.

“‘Thank you’ he says,” Dorian scoffed. “When you said you wanted to come with me to Tevinter, I expected more evenings together or helping me rebuild or at least ridiculing what some nobles believe to be flattering. Maybe I should paint fancy words on my face just so you would at least look at me.”

Zachary nodded his head, distracted. “Hmmm… Oh, we’ll do that tomorrow. I promise.”

“You said that yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that. And… need I go on?”

“If you’d like.”

“Zachary.”

There were sounds of footsteps and rustling, and suddenly, he could feel Dorian’s mustache tickle his neck and lips press against his skin. Something curled in his belly as Pavus kissed the sensitive spot beneath his ear. Three kisses. It always took three kisses _right there_ to make him moan, and Dorian knew this.

“Close the book, amatus,” he said.

Trevelyan tilted his head until he could smell the scented oils in Dorian’s hair — jasminepetals and cloves. His fingers, stained with black ink, were already on the nape of the mage’s neck.

Again, Dorian pressed another kiss beneath the inquisitor’s ear. He felt the nip of the mage’s teeth and shivered. “Come home with me.”

If Zachary Trevelyan was a different person, it would have been easy to abandon this decrepit place of history and dust. Leave the pages and scrolls for the spiders, rats, and some other fool to take his place. Give up on the years of intense research and risky experiments. Live the rest of his life with Dorian and always know what he had left behind in Nevarra, in the Inquisition, on the floor of this very place. But he was not that person, as much as Dorian wished him to be.

Before Pavus could kiss him again, Zachary pulled his hand away and placed it on the mage’s chest instead. “No.”

Dorian’s anger was just as extravagant as his clothes and magic. A quick set of footwork and he had shot up from the floor, hovering over Zachary with a flame in his eye. If looks could kill, Trevelyan would have been a pile of ash.

“What in the Maker’s fucking name is so important? Look at yourself!” he shouted, gesturing at the inquisitor’s bony hands and the way his shirt draped over the sharp angles of his body. Dorian Pavus was a show of hands and elbows and entire arms as he and his temper paraded around the room. “You’re practically wasting away! A gust of wind could sweep you away into the Nocen Sea if you’re not careful. I’ve been patient. Oh! A look! He gives me a look! I _have_ been patient. ‘He just lost an arm’ I said. ‘An ancient elf wants to destroy the entire world!’ I said. But I have looked over your shoulder and I have peeked at your notes, and they have nothing to do with any of that! **_WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!_** ”

It felt like the seconds after a thunderstorm — quiet, still, hesitant. One wrong move could cause a downpour. With less grace, Zachary pushed himself off the floor.

“What I’ve always done,” he said. “You know about my research. I’ve never kept that a secret from you. I want to restore a body, and not just with some random spirit. I want to find the soul.”

For several heartbeats, Dorian looked as though he were trying to gather up patience. Finally, he sighed and said, “And I have been supportive. I understand that your research is important to you, but it is _killing_ you. What do you plan to do? Rip open the Veil and go soul hunting?”

“Yes.”

The mage paused. His entire body had gone stiff. “That is _not_ funny.”

“I’m not laughing, Dorian.”

Pavus stood there, incredulous. “You would open the Fade again? Are you _mad_? Did you think the last time was a pretty little walk in the park? Oh, here nice Ser Nightmare. A daisy crown for your head! I’ve made it myself!”

“The Fade is infinite. It was an unfortunate spot to land in, but that’s all it was — a dot in a plane that goes on forever.”

“And yet here I am, unconvinced. This — all of this, the souls you want to find — it’s pointless. Maker’s breath, you’ve talked to Solas.”

His stub of an arm twitched. “Yes, I remember. He said a lot of words — leading a revolution, creating the Veil, causing the downfall of the elves — but never did he say what happens with the souls of the dead. If there is no Maker, are there no souls? I don’t believe that. I’ve studied the dead for years, Dorian. I know what I’m talking about.”

“Yes, I know all about your time as a Mortalitasi,” he said with a scoff. “How wonderful it must have been to sit in the dark all day with a hand up a corpse’s ass.”

Suddenly, Zachary drew up to his full height. Chin held high and shoulders back, he was almost as tall as Dorian. “I was on my way to becoming prelate of the Order. I was respected, sought after by the Pentaghast clan themselves. The King himself invited me to his mummification when the time came. I—”

“And how well did that turn out? Kicked out of the Order, banished from Nevarra, and now I know why. This is the same sort of obsession that brought the Blight to Thedas. And here you wish to do it again! In my homeland, of all places!”

“This isn’t obsession! This is the pursuit of knowledge!”

“Wrap it up in sparkling paper and tie it with a shiny bow, but it will always be a sick obsession. And you… You have the nerve to come to Tevinter and fuck up what I’ve worked so hard to build. To open the Fade, just as the ancient Magisters had done and further soil the name of the Tevinter Imperium. But anything for the ‘pursuit of knowledge’, right? Anything for that. What would you expect? People showering you with praise? ‘Oh thank you Lord Trevelyan! You’ve cheated death itself!’ People will _fear_ you. And the Chantry will have your head.”

“You don’t know that,” Zachary protested, narrowing his eyes.

“Ah, always an optimist, aren’t we? Well, let me put this in perspective for you, Inquisitor.” In two quick strides, Dorian had gotten within inches of the inquisitor’s face. A finger stabbed his chest. “If I know my countrymen, they will find a way to exploit you and your research. They will raise an army, no doubt, and we may have another Exalted March on our hands. All thanks to you. You will go down in history as a mad man, because we all know how well history favors those in power.

“But I love my country far too much to let that happen.”

Something shifted in Dorian’s expression, something that made Trevelyan’s heart drop like a stone. For a beat, the inquisitor held his breath until Dorian opened his mouth again.

“Leave.”

Who knew one word could feel like a punch in the chest. Zachary flexed his right hand, speechless.

“Take some food, a water skin, clothes, and do not step foot in this city again. Or I will know about it.”

“And then do what, exactly? Kill me?” he spat, anger coiling in his gut like a snake. “No, people couldn’t find out that Dorian Pavus had the inquisitor killed, could they? This isn’t about Tevinter or even the world. This is about you. You and your seat in the Magisterium. Because now that you had a taste of power, you crave it more than ever, and oh, what would people think if they ever found out about me and my research? What would they think of Dorian Pavus, the hypocrite?” Zachary let out a slow, deep laughter. His grin curled, eyes bulged, greasy hair curtained his face like strings. He looked absolutely insane. “You know who you sound like? _Your father._ ”

He felt his head strike the floor before the fist that had connected with his cheek. Pain blossomed from his temple and eye socket, gradually turning into a splitting headache. He saw stars spinning, spinning, spinning. Lights danced across his vision, the room spun in a blur of browns and blacks and whites, and blood dripped into his eye from where one of Dorian’s ring had split the skin. With the heel of his hand, Trevelyan tried to wipe away the blood, leaving a streak of red across his cheek.

“Get. Out.” Dorian growled.

The room was still fuzzy, mind still reeling, but the inquisitor had heard enough. He struggled up to his feet, tested his jaw to see if it was broken, and stumbled his way past Dorian on legs he had not used in days. When he was half-way down the spiral staircase, he paused. Hand gripping the iron banister, Zachary Trevelyan did not know whether to look back or not. What would he see? Dorian’s back turned on him? Or fury etched into the lines of his face? More and more of them appeared each day, as much as he denied it. But if he refused to even take a peek, the regret would eat at him, always wondering _What if?_

Because he hadn’t meant it. Maker, of course he hadn’t.

Zachary turned his head over his shoulder, and there was Dorian, arms crossed, shoulders slumped. Pain crinkled his eyes, the kind that would always came with heartache. Trevelyan wanted to go back to him, hurry back up and bury his face into Dorian’s shoulder and hold him tight with arms that could barely lift a book. He wanted to kiss him and lie with him one last time. End this on good terms. If the inquisitor was a different man, he would have stayed. It pained him to break the Tevinter’s heart, knowing he was the cause for the look in his love’s eyes. Zachary flexed his hand.

He cleared the lump in his throat and said, “I’m sorry. What I said… It’s not true. Not in the slightest. Vitae benefaria, amatus.”

When he saw Dorian’s lips set in a grim line, Trevelyan almost spun on his heel and sprinted up the few steps that separated them. Almost. But he knew Dorian had Tevinter, and Zachary had his research. Whether they would see each other again or if he would hear of Magister Pavus restoring the Imperium’s name, he did not know. And that made him sad. Trevelyan nodded his head and plodded back down the stairs, leaving the moss and dust and books and, above all else, Dorian for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you know, after writing these three one-shots, I got the feeling all of them are about obsession. Which  
> ahha  
> I KNEW because I totally planned the whole thing.  
> Salonna's obsession with Solas, Rania's obsession with her past mistakes, Zachary's obsession with necromancy.  
> I don't know what I'm trying to say. I guess I just needed to say it.  
> Thanks for reading! :)


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